


The Escape Artist

by mugenmine



Series: NewSub!John Headspace [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blindfolds, Bondage, Gags, Handcuffs, M/M, Predicament Bondage, Self-Bondage, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-27
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-19 00:21:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2367407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mugenmine/pseuds/mugenmine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thirty-four days had passed since Sherlock had given up control for the first time and let John take him apart. At the end of that night, after the bondage and pain, they had lain together in the dark and promised that this would be the start of something more.</p><p>But when the morning came Sherlock grew distant and John had been choosing his words carefully ever since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Re_White](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Re_White/gifts).



> This is the sixth story in the NewSub!John Headspace Series and picks up a month after the events in [Switch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/733802/chapters/1364141). It reads as a standalone, but events from the [A Study in Frustration](http://archiveofourown.org/works/351802), [The Doctor in the Boot](http://archiveofourown.org/works/386920/chapters/633990), and [Switch](http://archiveofourown.org/works/733802/chapters/1364141) are referenced.

John found the handcuffs, wedged deep between the seat cushion and the arm of his battered chair. His hand strayed down into the tight space, fingers catching on loose cushion threads as he followed Archie Goodwin across the pages of _Black Orchids_ and through the brownstone on West 35th street. By the time Archie found Nero Wolfe pacing among the rows of orchids, John’s focus was shot. He followed the familiar curve of the metal and thought of darker things.

“Useless,” Sherlock said.

John looked up, untangling himself from the mystery on the page and the one tucked beside him.

Sherlock stood before the sofa, staring at a mosaic of photographs and documents and newspaper clippings that covered the wall. He shook his head slowly, and stepped closer to the spiral of data. His shins pressed up against the sofa cushions.

“What is?” John asked.

“All of this. I still don’t have what I need.” Sherlock leaned in, his face inches from the wall. He narrowed his eyes. “I’m missing something.”

John traced his fingers across the two small loops of the chain. He pressed his thumb against the keyhole as the desire to slip back in time to join Nero and Archie faded completely.

”It’s half two. Take a step back. You’ve been staring at it for hours. We’re both tired.” Just come to bed. John caught himself before he said the words; they were still almost habit, one that he needed to break.

Thirty-four days had passed since they’d been together. Thirty-four days since Sherlock had given up control for the first time and let John take him apart. At the end of that night, after the bondage and pain, and the games of power and control, they had lain together in the dark and promised that this would be the start of something more.

But when the morning came Sherlock grew distant and John had been choosing his words carefully ever since.

“Just sleep on it. Your mind will keep working.”

Sherlock stifled a yawn against the back of his hand and compelled John to do the same. The weight of three straight days of locum work bleeding into casework had taken its toll. Long days and longer nights of watching out for Sherlock settled heavy into John’s bones. And although he had been awake almost twenty-four hours, Sherlock had been awake for even more.

John left the handcuffs where they lay and picked up his book. He stared down at the page and read the same sentence over and over again until it lost all meaning.

He had no idea how long the cuffs had been hidden beside him. Or why Sherlock had left them there in the first place. Sherlock usually kept his gear locked away in a trunk at the back of his wardrobe and unearthed it for the sole purpose of causing exquisite distress. This was something different. Intentional. Perhaps an opening back to what had been lost. Whatever Sherlock’s reason, the handcuffs stopped John in his place, as surely as a command.

“To sleep, yes.” Sherlock backed away from the puzzle. A sleepy countenance settled over his features, eyes half closed, lips parted as if a thought hovered in the space in-between.

“Why are you still awake?” Sherlock asked. He swayed slightly as he spoke, running solely on fumes and will. “You’re working in the morning.”

John looked up at him, surprised that somewhere in the whirlwind of theories and data, a space had been saved for his schedule. Sherlock paused when he reached John’s chair and his hand settled heavy on the back rest.

“Black Orchids.” Sherlock squinted down at the cover. John turned the book over.

“Don’t tell me what happens. I’ve only just started.”

Sherlock grew quiet. He tapped his hand against the back of John’s chair and John thought about covering it with his own. They remained in that quiet loop until Sherlock stirred from his thoughts.

“I can’t tell you what happens. I don’t know how it ends.”

 

* * *

 

John waited for the click of the bathroom door and the soft rush of the shower before he moved. He turned off the lights and settled back into his chair and pulled the handcuffs from their hiding place.

The cuffs lay heavy in his hands, cool to the touch and sturdier than he remembered. He ran his thumb along the frame and traced the lines engraved deep in the nickel. The letters _M &P_ marked one side, the looping Smith and Wesson logo carved into the other.

The first time he had been handcuffed they had been ratcheted so tight the edges cut into his wrists. The pain kept him lucid as he laid freezing, trapped in the dark in the boot of a car. Everything they did back then had been so clumsy and fucking reckless.

The handcuffs rattled softly as metal slid across metal in the palm of his hand. There would be no way Sherlock could hear. Not at that moment. Not for a while. But the cuffs wouldn’t grow quiet, until they had someone to keep still.

He had no idea what would happen, if Sherlock returned from the shower and found him sitting in his chair, his wrists locked together, waiting in the dark.

“I’m giving myself to you,” he would say and the words would be barely above a whisper. He didn’t know if Sherlock would remember what came after that, if Sherlock would choose to take him down or if he would refuse him.

The metal teeth clicked as he locked the cuffs around his wrists and notched them tighter. He pulled against them, testing the finger’s-width of space between the inside edge. Room enough to twist his wrists, but not to pull free.

He closed his eyes and settled back into the cushions, careful not to disturb the keys balanced atop his thigh. He took apart the sounds in the space, the gentle shift of the chain as he scratched his knee, the soft rumble of a car passing below, the white noise of the shower.

He waited for a spark of arousal, or fear, or for his heart to beat heavy and quick as it always did when Sherlock bound his wrists and forced him to wait.

He hooked his wrists behind his neck and interlaced his fingers, as if he were a prisoner, ordered not to move. His back and shoulders began to ache as the seconds passed, waking him up again. He tightened the cuffs until the edges dug into his skin, and strained against the metal, trying to feel something more than just discomfort. He imagined Sherlock at his back, gripping the chain, holding him in place.

John shifted to the edge of the chair and began to adjust his body. He planted his feet squarely and sat up straight and the horned skull high on the wall became his point of focus. His wrists ached now even without a struggle and the burn settled deep between his shoulder blades as he lifted his ribcage and held the position.

The shower stopped and John stopped with it, and for the first time his heart finally began to race. His hands curled into fists as he fought the urge to break position. All he had to do was count the seconds and wait, and Sherlock would come out and find him.

Chin up. Eyes forward. Don’t move. Not a sound.

His leg twitched, and the key slipped from his knee and broke his nerve. He snatched up the key and jammed it into the lock. He fumbled a few times before he freed his wrists and shoved the cuffs into the pocket of his robe.

“What are you still doing here?” Sherlock paused in the bathroom doorway, wrapped only in his dressing gown, his pyjamas draped over his shoulder. He turned off the light and cast them both into the dark.

John stood up too quickly and blocked Sherlock’s path. He stood frozen, invading Sherlock’s personal space, not knowing what to do. The handcuffs weighed heavy in his pocket, and the soreness lingered across his skin.

“I fell asleep in the chair. I was just headed up.”

The words sounded false; he’d pitched them too quickly. John picked up his book, certain that even in the dark Sherlock would see right through him if he bothered to look. He stepped aside, and waited for Sherlock to pass.

It took Sherlock a few moments to move.

“Goodnight, John.”


	2. Chapter 2

John crouched by Sherlock’s side on the fire escape, three storeys off the ground and hidden by the cover of night, and the mercy of shadows. The iron balcony groaned beneath their weight and shifted as they moved.

He hooked his fingers in the grating and waited for the structure to settle, before he made his way to the edge and scanned the alleyway. The night air smelled metallic and cool, like rain about to fall. John hoped it would wait until they were inside. Crouching in a downpour would be less than ideal.

A black sedan blocked the entrance, illegally parked by the owner of the Greek place on the ground floor. The back door to the kitchens stayed propped open with some stray bricks, and the only movement below came when a worker stepped outside for a smoke or to dump rubbish in the skip out back.

“This thing isn’t really meant to hold… people, is it?” John whispered.

Sherlock didn’t answer.

If the structure collapsed, and luck was on his side, he might land in the open skip, though most likely he’d hit the roof of the car. They’d worn black for this endeavour to help them disappear as they waited, but now John figured it would help identify them as burglars when their bodies were found beneath the toppled fire escape. He willed himself lighter and tried to move as little as possible.

He backed away from the edge and returned to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock’s attention was still fixed on the muted light bleeding through the blinds of Albert Bengston’s office.

A young man stepped into the alleyway to make a call. He paced back and forth before the doorway and spoke in a language John didn’t understand. John reached out to steady himself, his legs shaky from staying crouched and still. His hand landed against the small of Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock tensed at the touch, his body coiled tight and primed to move. John didn’t dare pull away. One sudden move and the structure would creak and their cover would be blown. So they stayed as they were, frozen and connected until the man said goodbye and disappeared back inside. John pulled his hand away.

“Time.” Sherlock said.

“10:55.”

For the past five nights, they had staked out the old building and waited for an opening. Sherlock had assured him that Bengston was a slave to patterns and routines and that one would emerge in due time. By the third night they had found three. At 9:30PM, Bengston stood on his balcony for a smoke, at 11:00 he switched off the lights and left for thirty minutes, and at 11:35 exactly, he returned to his office and worked until dawn.

In six minutes they would go in.

John counted down and started to focus, calming in the space between readying and action. Distractions faded with the passing seconds and he focused on his simple plan. Get in. Protect Sherlock. Get out. Don’t get caught. Don’t get killed.

He marked the escape routes. Two storeys up to the roof, three back down to the alley. Through the kitchen was another possibility, though hoofing it back onto a busy street and getting lost the crowd would be a better option. He checked his watch again.

At 11:00, the room above went dark. Sherlock started to stand. John grabbed his arm.

“Not yet,” John whispered. He tightened his grip on Sherlock’s forearm, fingers digging into his sleeve. “Give it a minute.”

Sherlock’s focus seemed three steps ahead, as if his mind had already moved into the darkened office and started searching. John held firm and counted down from sixty before he let go. He would keep a close eye on Sherlock tonight. Keep him safe.

A glass ashtray kept the window wedged ajar, its insides piled high with ash and cigarette butts. Sherlock crouched down and peered into the room through the gap. John watched the street.

“Everything alright?” John asked.

“Something’s off.”

“What does that mean?”

He looked back at Sherlock, waiting for the cue to proceed or abort. Sherlock eased open the window and climbed inside. John followed.

“Careful.”

John registered Sherlock’s warning halfway through the window as his hand brushed against a stack of coins and sent them scattering onto the floor.

He cursed quietly as he lowered the blinds. Sherlock switched on his torch.

“Ten in each,” Sherlock said. He aimed the light, illuminating neat piles of one-pound coins stacked on the edges of bookshelves, in the middle of the floor, atop filing cabinets. John closed his hand around the single coin he’d managed to catch on his way inside.

“What is all this?” John asked.

“A system. Not a deterrent. He’ll know if someone has been here.”

“Like us?”

“Most likely.”

“Security cameras would be simpler.”

“Perhaps, but not as interesting.”

Sherlock balanced his mini-torch between his teeth as he went to work and eased away at the insides of the filing cabinet locks. One by one they yielded to the influence of his slender picks and he began his search.

John scoured the corners and underneath chairs for the missing change. Crawling about in this frustrating search didn’t exactly line up with his vision of being Sherlock’s backup for the night, but the task had to get done. He found the final coin wedged beneath the desk and stuffed it in his jacket pocket.

“How long will you need?” John asked.

“Ten minutes.”

“You know what you’re looking for?”

With the task finished, John assumed the role of guardian and stood with his back against the door. He made countless shifts as he worked alongside Sherlock, slipping from scout to tactician, doctor to barrier as he filled the unspoken needs of the case.

He scanned the office, trying to form meaning from shapes in the dark. Whoever Bengston was, he had a thing for boxing. Posters of old heavyweight champions covered the walls. Jack Dempsey stood watch over a row of filing cabinets. A black and white poster of Muhammad Ali towering over a fallen Sonny Liston held centre position on the wall above Bengston’s desk. The desk took up most of the space, topped with an old computer monitor and framed photos of boxers John couldn’t make out. The stale smell of cigarette smoke permeated the space.

They’d tracked Bengston for over a week, since the day a young boxer had shown up at the flat with stories of blackmail and fights being thrown. John had assumed that Sherlock would dismiss such a mundane case until the young man started talking about Albert Bengston and his collection of strange habits. Then suddenly they were in.

John reached for a photograph on the desk.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Sherlock aimed his torch at the desk and John began to notice how each frame lined up almost perfectly to the next, but not quite. The uniform gaps between the pictures seemed to form another pattern.

“You’ll never be able to re-position it correctly.”

John lowered his hand and returned to his post. He focused on the sounds on the other side of the door as he watched Sherlock work. Sherlock dug through the files, whispering words that he couldn’t make out.

“We’ve got another eight,” John whispered. “At most.”

Sherlock pulled out another stack of files and stopped. He stared at John, narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth as if to speak. John waited out the moment of realisation, knowing better than to interrupt.

Sherlock dropped the pile and scanned the posters instead. He paused at each one, then switched on the computer, and sat down behind the desk.

The light from the monitor bathed the room in a ghostly glow. He tossed his mobile to John.

“It’s our look out. They’ll text when they see him.”

“We have a look out?”

Sherlock pointed to the files.

“When did we get a lookout?"

John switched to assistant and skimmed through files and tucked everything back into place.

Sherlock scanned the room. He tapped the edge of the keyboard as the computer churned through the boot up process.

“John.”

“Oh, right.”

John fished a jump drive from his pocket and handed it over.

“You’ve figured out the password?” John asked.

“Of course.”

“Really?” John looked around the room, trying to observe what Sherlock had observed and piece together the clues. Coins, boxers, ugly chairs, books: he couldn’t see a pattern.

“Behind me,” Sherlock said.

John stared up at the poster of Ali.

“He has three pictures of Joe Louis on his desk, two of Rocky Marciano, two of Muhammad Ali. That poster of Jack Dempsey?” Sherlock pointed to the vintage poster above the filing cabinets. “Each day he sits down and looks at that image, it inspires him. But when someone comes into his office and sits down in the chair across from him, they look up and see Muhammad Ali standing triumphant over Sonny Liston. Bengston may admire Jack Dempsey, but he aspires to be Ali. He wants to put that fear into people. Though in his second World Champion fight in 1965, Ali was still using his given name, Cassius Clay.”

Sherlock entered the name into the password field and the desktop opened.

“Ah, okay… Obvious. Right… So Bengston’s a boxing extortionist?”

“Aficionado. Someone who smokes that much wouldn’t last long in the ring. But yes, also an extortionist.”

A door closed in the outside hall and John froze. He pressed his ear against the door and held his hand up in warning.

He could make out voices in the hallway though he couldn’t understand the words. Two women, heading in their direction, hopefully continuing past. He picked up snippets of weekend plans and work complaints as they passed outside the door and faded back into formless sound. John waited for the chime of the elevator arriving before he moved.

He checked his watch. Six minutes left.

“We need to be out of here in five.”

“Six.”

“Non-negotiable, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s mobile vibrated in his jacket pocket and John startled, forgetting he had it on him.

In the building. Early. Three.

“Shit.”

Already in the building meant Bengston would be in the elevator within the minute and on the other side of the door in two. With backup.

“You’ve got sixty.”

Sherlock stared at the screen, still fixed on the task, not seeming to register the urgency.

“Seconds. They’re coming Sherlock, now.”

“I’m almost done. I just- Three minutes. That’s all.”

The need to act overrode everything else. John fought down the urge to grab Sherlock by the arm and drag him out the window. Trapped inside the office he was useless. But if he moved outside the game might change.

“Text me when you’re out.” John emptied the contents of his pockets onto the desk: ten coins, Sherlock’s mobile, his wallet, his gun.

“If for some reason I get arrested, I don’t want to be caught with that on me.”

“They?” Sherlock frowned, untangling his mind from the mystery and touching back down to earth. At that moment Sherlock seemed focused solely on him. Sherlock grabbed John by the wrist and dug his fingers in, holding him in place. “You said they. How many does he have with him?”

He could give Sherlock three minutes. John didn’t have a plan besides stall until Sherlock made it out, but he’d figure it out when he got there. Right now the thought of leaning in and kissing Sherlock hard on the mouth filled his head and distracted him.

Sherlock let go and turned back to the screen, and the disconnection pulled John back into the moment.

“Get what you need,” John said. “I’ll get you the time.”

 

* * *

 

Sherlock had settled deep into his work by the time John returned to the flat. Documents and photographs blanketed the kitchen table and chairs. Surfaces typically used for washing-up and making food were now relegated as storage space for all things Bengston. John shrugged carefully out of his coat, wincing at the ache across his ribs, where the blow had driven him to his knees.

His adrenaline edge had faded during his walk home, and as the cool spring rain soaked him through to his skin he began to notice all the places that hurt. Now he was just tired and sore.

He eased into Sherlock’s chair and watched from the darkened sitting room. The kitchen light above the table flickered and buzzed out an uneven rhythm. It was as if Sherlock had returned to the flat and started working and forgotten about everything else. Sherlock leaned over the table, still in his jacket, his clothes still damp from the night rain. He made rapid notes across the pages as the only light in the space strobed above.

“Is it all there?” John asked.

“Yes, everything.” Sherlock glanced up from the puzzle and squinted into the dark. “Thank you.”

John settled back and closed his eyes. He just needed a moment to summon the strength to get out of the chair and stumble upstairs to bed. The new day started in a few hours and he was nowhere near ready for it. He probed the corner of his mouth gently with his tongue and tasted blood.

He began to drift, lulled by the sound of shifting papers, and the soft pop and hiss as the kitchen light refused to give up the ghost. Everything around him blurred into a soothing hum.

John startled as fingers brushed against his chin. He lashed out, half awake, and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist.

“John?”

Sherlock’s voice brought him back. He opened his eyes and found himself still in the leather chair. Sherlock leaned over him with a damp flannel in his hand, close enough to keep him off balance.

“What are you doing?” John eased his grip and swatted Sherlock’s hand away. “Shit, what time is it?”

“You’ve been hurt,” Sherlock said.

John shook his head; everything between his ears felt thick and muzzy, and he wanted to go to bed. Sherlock had switched on all the lights in the sitting room and the brightness made his head ache. He winced as Sherlock took him gently by the chin.

“No, really, I’m fine.”

“Don’t move.”

He relented, too tired to protest, and let Sherlock look him over. The blow to his face had been fast and off centre and he hadn’t caught the brunt of it. He didn’t have a chance to see what had been done. He didn’t know how bad it looked.

“Look at me,” Sherlock said. He dabbed at the corner of John’s mouth with the cloth. John winced and pulled away.

“That’s not necessary-”

“Who did this?”

Sherlock tugged John’s shirt up, exposing a pale bruise across his ribs.

“I didn’t exactly get their names.” John untangled himself from Sherlock’s probing hands and pulled his shirt back down.

“What happened?”

“Look, I am fine. I played a bit drunk to stall them and when that didn’t work, I got-”

He trailed off as Sherlock brushed the flannel across his cheek, there was no mark there, the blow had caught him lower, but Sherlock seemed intent. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock had heard anything he had been saying.

Sherlock marked each of the new bruises he’d picked up with a gentle touch of the cloth. John sat very still and tried to sort out if this sudden closeness meant anything more than Sherlock getting lost in the details.

“Continue,” Sherlock said after the silence stretched out and began to grow uncomfortable.

“It’s not that exciting. They got angry, I got punched, then they ejected me by force. I didn’t want them to get to you. One of them had a gun, it wouldn’t have been-”

He stopped again, as Sherlock dabbed at the corner of his mouth. Sherlock gripped him by the shoulder as if to steady him though he had been still the entire time.

“There really isn’t-” John frowned, unable to get a complete sentence out. He reached out and stilled Sherlock’s hand. “I’m not hurt.”

He squeezed Sherlock’s hand gently and smiled as the water dripped from the cloth and trailed down his neck. Sherlock pulled his hand away.

“Are you alright?” John asked.

“Of course. I just- I didn’t know you had been injured.”

Sherlock took a step back and folded the flannel too many times. “I should finish- I should get back to the work.”

John watched Sherlock’s retreat to the kitchen. He didn’t know what had just happened between them, but it made him tired.

“I’m going up,” John gripped the arm rest, and pushed himself to his feet.

He paused before the kitchen, not sure why he bothered to stop, or what he wanted to say. The flannel lay folded in a neat square on the corner of the table. Sherlock seemed almost oblivious to him now, turning over pages and scribbling notes on the back. Sherlock reached out absently as he wrote and straightened the damp cloth. John took a chance.

“When you’re done with all of this,” John said, “I’ll leave the door open for you.”

 

* * *

 

John drifted up from a restless sleep. He didn’t have to move to know that Sherlock had never made it into his bed. The bedroom door stood ajar and untouched. He missed the deep and even breathing at his back, and the half coherent words that would tumble from Sherlock’s lips as he dreamt, his busy mind still at work.

A soft red glow hovered above his bedside table and solidified as he blinked, until he made out the numbers on the clock: 3:47. Far too late. He listened for signs that Sherlock was still awake and working through the night, but nothing moved below.

He untangled himself from the covers and found his way into the bathroom to relieve himself and check his injuries. A faint red bruise marked the corner of his mouth, the only evidence of the scuffle. It would fade and be gone in a day. He tested the spot with his tongue and scratched the back of his head. A sleep-deprived version of himself squinted back from the other side of the mirror. As he stood on the cold tile and listened to the slow drip of the tap, he couldn’t figure out why everything had gone so wrong. He turned off the light.

He pulled the handcuffs from the bedside table and cuffed his wrists behind his back. He didn’t put much thought into it; it just seemed like the right thing to do. He struggled back beneath the covers, and shifted until he was comfortable and began to drift.

With each breath the weight of exhaustion spread slowly through his limbs, and tethered him to the bed.

He wanted to stay like this for a while, his hands heavy behind his back, drifting and half awake, calmed by the cool touch of metal against his skin. This would have been better if he wasn’t alone. This would have been better if he were kissed.

He would wake up with more bruises than he went to sleep with, and spend the day with his shirt cuffs buttoned and his wrists red and sore, hoping no one would notice the marks across his skin. But in the quiet hours before dawn, the peace from this small restraint stilled him down to his bones, and the worries about tomorrow began to fade. He had almost forgotten that he could feel this way.

 


	3. Chapter 3

He missed the exact moment when the conversation turned. When the bold young man with the Caesar cut and the expensive suit leaned into Sherlock’s personal space to steal a kiss.

John stood at the far end of the bar, watching Sherlock through a haze of movement and bodies, and pulsing lights. Balancing the tasks of staying unnoticed and focused grew difficult as the Supremes sang on about being set free, and sharply dressed kids pulled shapes on the dance floor.

He felt out of place, and slightly too old to fit in with this room of beautiful young things. He still didn’t know the details of why they were in this club or why Sherlock had stopped their taxi at the corner and jumped out like a man on a mission. Sherlock had thrown him six words as they walked through the door: “For a case. Keep your distance,” and so John had. He tapped his finger against his pint glass in time to the beat and repeated those six words in his head to keep from walking out the door.

He had watched this strange dance unfold over the past hour, far enough away that he couldn’t hear what was being said. It was like watching a movie he didn’t want to see with the sound turned down. None of the dialogue he conjured up seemed right. He gave the mark a name, Noel, and tried to size him up as Sherlock would but his own details gave no real insight. The man looked to be in his early twenties, well off enough to dress bespoke, and striking enough to catch the attention of both men and women in the club. Confident. Bold. Obviously a shit.

He always hated the name Noel.

Watching Sherlock kiss another man, kiss _not him_ , made his teeth hurt. This felt like spying on a cheating lover, though he couldn’t call Sherlock that anymore. How many weeks had to pass without so much as a kiss before they were relegated back into just friends? Four? Six?

Sherlock stood with his back to the bar before his audience of one, and looked down his nose with the mix of arrogance and aloofness that was second nature to him. When he flashed an open smile, an uncharacteristic smile, John knew that Noel didn’t stand a chance.

He couldn’t imagine meeting Sherlock like this, chatting him up at a club, buying him a drink, asking him to dance, kissing him boldly in front of everyone. The scenario seemed so mundane, so impossibly normal. They had skipped all the steps, subtle flirting, blatant flirting, coded innuendo, trying to impress each other. They had gone from zero to sixty in the space of a long Sunday morning and then to a full stop in the space of one night.

The Supremes faded into the driving up-beat of a SKA song that he couldn’t place and the dance floor filled again. A young woman in a bright mini-dress pointed to the space next to him and flashed a pretty smile. John nodded and returned it, flattered by the hesitant attention, and more than ready to be pulled out of his head.

He bought her a drink, and exchanged names, and told her he liked the name Lily. He laughed easily at her jokes, but turned her down when she asked for a dance, lying that he didn’t know how. He was tempted though, it had been a long time since he’d gone dancing and he used to like it. Lily smiled and leaned in close when he spoke, and looked like a young Dorothy Dandridge, which was incentive in itself. But he had a purpose. He just didn’t know what it was. As she squeezed his hand and slipped back into the crowd John watched her go with a twinge of regret.

When he looked back, Sherlock’s focus had drifted from his mark. John watched Sherlock track Lily’s progress through the crowd, and then Sherlock retraced the path back and stared him in the eye.

Noel pulled Sherlock into another kiss. He seemed to be growing bolder as the night went on. Noel slid his hands onto Sherlock’s hips and pressed in close and John wondered how many of the twenty-seven bones he could break if he grabbed Noel’s hand and began to squeeze.

Sherlock pulled back and looked away and John couldn’t tell if the hesitation was feigned or if he wanted out. He had missed the last ten minutes and now he struggled to catch up. Sherlock took a step back and the edge of the bar stopped him from taking another.

Noel closed the gap; Sherlock’s hesitation seemed to spark him and he smiled and tried to pick up where he left off. He distracted with another kiss and slipped something into Sherlock’s drink.

John began to move. He trusted Sherlock to be aware and in control, but Sherlock seemed off his game. He drew his hand into a fist as he moved in, and outrage began to trump tactical. If Sherlock hesitated or reached for his drink, he would put Noel through a fucking wall.

Sherlock broke off from the kiss and slipped his hand around Noel’s wrist. He leaned in and whispered in Noel’s ear, and the mark flipped from focused and cool to a man on the run.

John pushed through the crowd, muttering apologies as he carved a path towards his target. All emotions faded into white noise as he defaulted to the basic plan of action. Get Noel. Protect Sherlock.

He aimed towards the exit sign at the back of the club, the obvious way out. Noel banked left and slammed through a side door and Sherlock followed suit.

John took the stairs two at a time, barely-aware of the steep incline and uneven decent, trying to close the gap. Sherlock’s complete focus would be on the man they pursued, so his would have to be on both.

The music faded to a muted bass thump as they descended, and the light faded with them. John could hear himself think again. All rules changed in the dark and he didn’t have his gun. Sherlock hit the landing and disappeared through a propped open door and into the black. John raced to catch up. He couldn’t let Sherlock out of his sight.

The stairs emptied into a cramped storage space, too dark to see to the other side, or know if there was another way out. Rows of metal shelving cut the room into a maze of wires and equipment, obscuring all direct lines of sight. Everything became a potential point of cover.

John stopped at Sherlock’s back and they stood shoulder to shoulder in the shadows. Reaching Sherlock removed another variable and narrowed John’s focus into a fine point. Sherlock’s fingers brushed against his wrist and lingered there. John pulled his hand away, distracted by the touch.

Sherlock pointed to the door behind them and held up his hand for John to wait. He laid out his plan in hand gestures; he would take point and move through narrow corridor through the centre, hoping to flush the target out. John grabbed Sherlock’s arm and pointed at himself, not keen on Sherlock going in blind. That part was his.

Sherlock moved before he could react, and strode down the path. John hung back, waiting, listening to Sherlock’s footfalls in the dark.

“He’s doubled back,” Sherlock called out, too loud for common sense, giving away his position. John closed in. He crept towards Sherlock’s last position, hoping Noel would be the first to make a sound. He pulled out his mobile and threw light into the shadows.

He didn’t register reacting, only that when the light came on Noel stood behind Sherlock gripping a claw hammer and something vicious inside John switched on.

John launched into Noel’s back, his only goal to stop intent from sparking into action. He aimed for soft parts, breakable parts, spaces between shoulder blades and joints, and his weight and momentum brought Noel to ground. John grappled blindly, trying to stay on him, keep him pinned. Noel bucked and regained his grip on the hammer and John slammed his fist into Noel’s head. He grinned as Noel’s body went limp beneath him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said.

“-the Hell Sherlock! Next time-” John struggled to catch his breath. He shook out his hand, testing his fingers. Nothing broken. “Next time let me know when you decide to be bait.”

“I’ve been bait the entire night.”

Sherlock backtracked to the door and found the light switch--the fixtures buzzed and the fluorescents flickered to life.

Sherlock crouched down across from John and called Lestrade. John sat back and watched Sherlock relay the details as his focus widened once again and time sped back up to normal.

“You know that’s not what I meant,” John said. “What if I hadn’t seen him? What if I hadn’t got to you?”

“That wouldn’t have happened.”

“He could’ve had a knife?”

“He didn’t.”

“How could you be sure?”

“He spent the evening rubbing up against me. I’m even quite certain of his religion… Stop gaping at me.”

John closed his mouth. He forced his attention back onto Noel and turned Noel onto his back to check for damage.

“So, who is he?”

“Joseph Lindley, Malcom Wesley, Paul Theriot. He goes by a few others.”

“That tells me nothing.”

“He’s been busy drugging and stealing from wealthy young men for quite some time. He has quite the successful extortion racket going on as well. When he finally made it to London, I had him tracked. I noticed his file on Lestrade’s computer a few months ago. He interested me.”

“Noticed? Does Lestrade know you… noticed?”

Beneath him, Joseph began to stir.

“We should tell someone up there what’s going on.”

“Lestrade’s on his way.”

John stared down at Joseph, or Noel or whoever he was. He hadn’t been able to get a good look at him until now. Joseph hovered on the edge of consciousness, a bruise across his cheekbone and his lip bloodied where he had bit it hitting the ground. John couldn’t deny that Joseph was striking.

Sherlock studied Joseph quietly. He nudged him with his mobile.

“Did I wait too long to make a move?” John asked.

Sherlock frowned and John realised that the question had come out wrong.

“When you were with him. I couldn’t tell if you had it under control. You seemed distracted.”

“Of course it was under control.” Sherlock frowned, his focus locked on the body between them.

“I’m not saying that it wasn’t. It’s just that at one point you were staring at me when you should have been focused on him. I mean I got- distracted as well. But he was- kind of persistent with you, and… I just meant, are you alright?”

John reached out and touched Sherlock’s hand, not sure if it was the right thing to do.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

The speed and sharpness of the words stopped John short. He grew quiet as the wall grew between them.

“What’s going on with you?” John asked.

Sherlock stared down at John’s tentative point of contact and pulled his hand away.

 

* * *

 

John looped the belt low and tight around his ankles. He wrestled with the strap, pulling until the leather dug in and refused to give. He wrapped the remaining length around once more, and tucked the end between his ankles, not sure what else to do with it. This didn’t have to be neat. Being trapped was enough.

He’d spent the long week since he’d woken up stiff and sore, with his hands cuffed behind his back, wondering if he bound himself tighter, if some of the ache would go away.

He sat on the edge of his bed and stared out the window, still in his street clothes, still trying to sort out what had happened that night, and why he was jealous of a man who would be going to prison. _He interested me._ John lingered on Sherlock's words and tried to force them out of his head. He had no idea if Sherlock still found him interesting, or if after all of this time he had lost his shine. He closed the curtains.

Sherlock had stayed behind at the club, arguing with Lestrade about protocol. He had gained his second wind once the Yarders arrived on the scene and would be out for hours, giving John more than enough time to get lost for a while. He wasn’t sure if Sherlock would even notice that he had gone.

He knelt down in the narrow space between the wall and his bed. The barriers on both sides gave him a sense of confinement and protection, and enough room in which to manoeuvre. His centre of gravity shifted forward as he spread his knees apart for balance, and the belt dug in tighter. He grabbed onto the bed to steady himself. Stability or pain, the strap didn’t allow for a middle ground. He kept his knees apart; he could deal with the pain.

The night’s chase and impact had left him shaky and sore. His left hand still ached from the blow to Joseph Lindley’s skull. Ten minutes of ice had dulled the throbbing, but now he wanted to feel it again. He shrugged his shoulders, testing his pain and his range. He stretched his arms above his head and winced as his joints popped and his muscles extended, then he pushed a little more.

He slipped the key into his back pocket and locked his wrists behind his back. If he moved too much now he would lose his balance and pitch face first onto the floor, unable to stop.

Uncertainty kept him from settling in place. He closed his hands into fists to keep from pulling out the key and bringing everything to a stop. He tried again.

The lines and angles of the room softened into a haze as he stared into space and reduced himself to breath and pain. He lingered on everything he felt, the pressure of the belt digging into his ankles, the warm metal, heavy and tight around his wrists, the ache of kneeling on the hard floor.

John pulled against the cuffs, twisting his wrists and trying to work free, bruising his skin until he wore himself out, waiting for a spark.

Sherlock wouldn’t have left him like this. His wrists would be bound to his ankles and his mouth filled to keep him quiet as he struggled, everything too tight and aching. The key would be in Sherlock’s hand, and his heart would race, and he would have to wait for a word, or a touch, and then he would have to endure.

John closed his eyes. He missed it.


	4. Chapter 4

John moved through the empty halls of St. Barts like a ghost. He preferred the Old Pathology building after hours, when the bustle and traffic of the day slowed down and only the night owls remained. Sherlock worked away somewhere above, and once he found him, their next adventure would begin. The click of his shoes and the rustle of his takeaway bags broke the otherwise placid stillness of the space. He took the back stairwell and ran up three flights to see if he had any energy left in him, after the end of his very long day. He slowed before he reached the top.

The text message requesting his presence had arrived less than an hour ago. John had been inches from their front door when his phone had chimed and he had stopped at the threshold to debate replying, already mentally ready for a Friday night spent in. His only plans consisted of eating dinner and starting in on a new Nero Wolfe mystery, or maybe watching some telly, with the low hum of Sherlock working away in the background. But a case could work as well; the promise of a new challenge would wake him up again. He just needed to shift gears, eat some food, down a cup of coffee, and he would stay coherent until dawn. Tomorrow he could sleep in.

“So what are we working on?”

Sherlock sat now at a desk in the darkened lab, staring at a monitor filled with swirls of red and green and yellow, the patterns like abstract stained glass. It took John a moment to register the mosaic as plant cells. Sherlock straitened at John’s words and turned to stare at him as if he was turning over a new unknown in his head.

John ignored the scrutiny and held up plastic bags full of warming sushi and cooling gyoza.

“I brought dinner.”

“Why are you here?” Sherlock asked.

The question stopped him.

“You sent me this?” John crossed the room and set his mobile by Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock squinted at the screen.

_Barts - SH_

“Yes.” Sherlock nudged the mobile back. “But why are you here?”

“Did you not hear me?”

Sherlock frowned and went back to his slides. He scrolled past bursts of color, pausing at some, dismissing most.

“I came all the way down here.” John stopped, and simmered, and grew silent. He cleared off a space at the far end of the desk and slid a container of miso soup in Sherlock’s direction.

“I thought we were working tonight.”

“The text said ‘Barts,’” Sherlock said.

“Which is why I turned up. I thought it meant we were working tonight.”

“Not ‘Barts, _come_.’”

“I really don’t see the bloody difference.”

Sherlock paused and scowled either at the words, or the screen. John couldn’t tell which.

John sipped his miso. After an hour of hauling the takeaway between work, and home, and Barts, the broth was almost cold, but he drank it nonetheless. He poked at Sherlock’s words, not understanding the difference, and stewed quietly, weighing if it was worth going another frustrating round.

“Wait, were you… Was that you- checking in with me?”

He stared at Sherlock; patterns of pink and blue hexagons filled the screen and cast points of coloured light across Sherlock’s skin.

“Is this something you’re doing now?” John said. “Because next time I’ll know not to bother.”

He grew quiet again as Sherlock worked, mulling over the awkward silence. The colours changed with each slide and John grew curious, but he was too weary to ask. In the gap of conversation, unspoken questions filled the silence. Uncomfortable questions. Questions he’d gathered over the weeks of this strange separation and locked away.

As he tucked his mobile into his back pocket, his fingers brushed against the handcuff key. He’d been carrying it like a talisman since he found the cuffs, slipping it into his pocket each morning and returning the key to his bedside table drawer each night. He forgot he had it on him most of the time. Now it was a much needed distraction that pulled him on to better things, like what he might do the next time he was alone.

In the back of the freezer, behind the stacks of frozen food that neither of them would ever touch, the spare handcuff key lay frozen in an ice cube tray. One night, when he finally worked up the nerve, he would drop the frozen key into a pint glass, lock himself in the cuffs and become truly stuck. He hadn’t decided yet if he’d bind his ankles again, or push it further. But for a few minutes he would struggle and fight and be forced to endure it. Maybe then he would start to feel something.

“John.”

“Yeah, sorry, what?”

He looked up; thankful that in the dark Sherlock wouldn't be able to see the flush across his skin. He set his chopsticks down.

“You stopped moving. You've been staring at your food for five minutes.”

“So, what is it then, do you want me or not?” John frowned; he hadn't meant to say it like that. He picked up the last gyoza with his fingers and shoved it into his mouth. “I’m tired, Sherlock. If you don’t need me I’m going home.”

Sherlock stared at him as he continued to scroll through the slides, missing all the details as the images blurred across the screen. John wanted to tell him to stop, and go back and pay attention to what he was doing, but instead he waited and thought that maybe this once Sherlock might say more.

“No.” Sherlock turned back to the screen. “I- don’t need you.”

Two months had passed since Sherlock had touched John’s face, or kissed him, or slept in his bed, or taken him down. “I don’t know if I can give you what you need, but I'll give you what I have,” Sherlock had promised, the night before they drifted apart. “You would have to decide if that’s enough.”

John knew now that it really wasn't.

 

* * *

 

John laid out everything he needed on the bed. Two black bandannas, an old belt, and the borrowed handcuffs. His gear wasn't as impressive as Sherlock’s, nothing imported or custom made, but he’d chosen for function, not form.

The entire process would take twenty minutes at most, he could stretch it out if he wanted, once he was bound. He figured ten minutes for the ice to melt, five more to retrieve the key from the pint glass, and maybe another five to get out of the cuffs. Somewhere in that window he would be trapped, hopelessly stuck, and then things would start to get interesting.

He was surprised the key remained where he left it, unmolested by Sherlock. He’d frozen it a week ago, while Sherlock busied himself in the sitting room scanning maps of old railways, far too distracted to pay attention to his rummaging in the freezer.

He set the glass on the bedside table and watched the ice circle the bottom until it slowed and stopped. He wasn’t sure how to proceed, if he should stay in his clothes, or keep the lights on. He didn't know what he wanted to feel.

He went with what he knew and stripped down to his underwear; hoping the belt and cuffs against his skin would feel different, maybe more like things were being done _to_ him. He took the time to put his clothes away, aware that each step forward grew a little slower than the one before. Condensation dotted the surface of the glass as the ice started to break down. He had to get on with it.

He crossed his ankles before he bound them with the belt. Standing would be difficult, he’d have to fight his way from the strap, or free his wrists first and go from there.

He sped up to keep from stopping and tied a thick knot in the centre of the bandanna. Hesitation took hold when he bit down and he tied the gag quickly and too tight, while he fought the instinct to spit it out and stop. Before he could change his mind he locked his wrists behind his back and tightened them until he couldn't pull free. He stared down at the blindfold, forgotten by his knee.

_Shit._

He struggled to the centre of the bed and collapsed onto his side. He’d locked the cuffs too tight. He tested his circulation, turning his wrists and stretching his fingers wide. He’d be bruised and raw by the end of this.

He panted around the thick knot, the cotton stale and dry against his tongue, his mouth wedged open. He dug his teeth into the knot as his jaw began to ache and stayed quiet through his struggle. The gag had always given him something to fight against, and protest and rage. Alone in his room, in the quiet of the flat, John kept silent; being loud seemed out of place.

He’d never thought about anyone other than Sherlock taking him down. He didn't know who else could do these things to him, or how he would find someone he could trust enough to take him apart and put him back together again. John tried to imagine Kazuo standing over him, lengths of rope in his hands, turning him onto his stomach and slowly replacing the belt and the cuffs with elaborate loops and knots and binding him until he couldn't move at all. As he grew lost in the details, the image of Kazuo shifted into Sherlock, crouching next to him by the bed, a cruel smile on his lips, whispering all of the things that he would do.

His mobile buzzed on the bedside table and jarred him out of his broken fantasy. Struggling to the edge proved harder without the use of his arms and he managed with a combination of elbows and momentum and inched closer to his mobile.

_I’m sorry. - SH_

A thin line of water coated the bottom of the glass and the ice cube remained almost intact. John let loose a string of stifled curses and tried to do the math. Maybe another ten? Most likely twenty until the key came free. Far too long, he needed out now.

He swung his legs over the side and pushed himself up. If he wasn’t in this ridiculous state this would be like every other night, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring out the window onto the quiet street below before he turned out the lights and slept alone. He thanked God that the curtains stayed closed, and that in his haste he had forgotten the blindfold.

He edged closer to the bedside table. He’d have to turn his back to the glass and go at it blind, but once he had the ice cube in his hands everything would fall into place. He wobbled on the sides of his feet and braced his weight against the bed. The mobile buzzed again as he reached towards the glass and he fought the urge to look back.

He found the right angle and hooked his fingers onto the edge of the glass and slid his hand inside. The ice numbed his fingertips as he chased the cube around in circles, until he finally made contact. His heart slowed. He glanced down at the phone.

_I need to talk to you. – SH_

Downstairs, the door to the flat closed.

John’s focus shattered and his fingers slipped on the ice, and the glass tumbled to the floor. He slammed down onto his knees, stifling a groan as the pain sparked through his body. The glass rolled beneath the bed and slowed to a stop.

“John?” Sherlock called up from below.

John froze, not ready to give up yet. He could still get to the key, he had to. He flattened himself against the floor and peered beneath the bed. The glass had stopped almost perfectly in the centre, and the ice cube lay just outside the edge, melting slowly onto the floor.

The creak of the stairs marked Sherlock’s approach. Sherlock paused on the other side of the door, the floorboards shifting beneath his shoes.

John remembered the spare key, still in the pocket of his trousers, balled up in the bottom of his hamper. Impossible to get to.

Sherlock knocked on the door.

“I know you’re angry with me,” Sherlock began, “you have every right to be.”

John lost track of everything Sherlock said beyond that, wrapped up in his careful struggling, desperate not to give himself away. He didn't want to be found, not like this. He didn't want to have to explain that somehow in the silence that had become their relationship, he’d taken to tying himself up to feel something other than angry, or impatient, or alone.

“John?”

John struggled onto his side as the door opened. From where he lay, wedged between the bed and the wall, he would be out of the line of sight until Sherlock stepped into the room. He stared at the pint glass.

“John, are you alright?”

John looked up during the pause that came after the question. Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed, still in his coat, grinning wide. The heat of embarrassment flushed across John’s skin. He struggled not to look away.

Sherlock’s gaze flickered like a hummingbird, tracking from the bed, to the bedside table, and back to the floor where the weight of Sherlock’s attention finally came to rest.

“Oh,” Sherlock said and took a step back. His expression shifted, something indecipherable in his regard. “This isn't _for_ me, is it…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter John refers to Kazuo, Ares Adler's protege, who was first introduced in [Bespoke](http://archiveofourown.org/works/448674/chapters/768511).


	5. Chapter 5

John struggled to right himself, his movements clumsy under the unwanted scrutiny. Sherlock studied him for what seemed like an eternity before he finally approached and crouched down before him. John closed his eyes as Sherlock’s hand came to rest on his head, and for the first time that night he truly felt trapped.

He flinched back as Sherlock touched his face. Sherlock stopped and drew his hand back.

“Will you let me help you?”

The effort to not look away wore John down. He nodded once and Sherlock hauled him up and sat him on the bed. John waited to see what Sherlock would do next.

“Trust me,” Sherlock said. “I’m just going to put things right again.”

Sherlock tugged at the knot that held his gag in place and John lowered his head and waited for Sherlock to untie him. It seemed putting things right meant letting him go. The process would take a while, Sherlock always slowed when the time came to release him, lingering on the knots and buckles and making him wait. Sherlock loosened the gag and centred the knot between John’s teeth then tightened it once more. John looked up, confused.

Sherlock continued to make adjustments to his bonds without setting him free. He shifted the belt around John’s ankles so the buckle didn’t rest against bone, and loosened the gag enough so the edges no longer dug into the corners of his mouth. John pulled back as Sherlock reached behind him, not sure if he needed to struggle.

“They seem too tight.” Sherlock tugged on the cuffs. “Do they hurt?”

Sherlock stayed crouched before him, hands resting on John’s knees, waiting. John shook his head.

Sherlock retrieved the key from beneath the bed and held it until the ice melted away. John stared at Sherlock’s hand and imagined the cold burn against his skin, as the droplets hit the floor and broke the silence. Sherlock pressed the cold key into John’s hand.

“You still had about ten minutes left on the ice. This should get you back to where you left off. If you want, I could stay with you. I won’t interfere.”

John shook his head. He didn’t want an audience. The awkwardness of the night had burrowed under his skin and twisted his stomach into knots. There had been all of those words, spoken from the other side of the door and he couldn’t remember any of them. The only certain thought in his head was that he wanted to be done with it all.

He counted the creaks in the stairs as Sherlock descended. When they stopped in the middle, John knew that Sherlock had settled down on the staircase and would wait for him.

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t want you to see me like that,” John said. He stood at the back of his chair, using the worn seat as a barrier between them. Sherlock had left a mug of tea by the foot of his chair and steam drifted up from the surface.

“John, there’s nothing wrong-”

“No, it’s not that. I’m not ashamed of it. I just didn't want you to know.”

Sherlock sat across from him, already dressed for the night. John pulled his dressing gown tightly around his body; the sitting room held a chill and he was still damp from the shower.

“I’ve known since the night you found the cuffs. Your wrists have been bruised for weeks. You left the key in the ice tray-”

John sighed; he settled into his chair and pulled at a small tear on the knee of his old pyjama bottoms. The threads loosened beneath his fingers and his skin began to show through. He wondered why he hadn't thrown them away already. He reached down for the tea and the mug warmed his fingers.

“Of course you knew,” John said.

“Of course I knew.”

“But, you never said anything.”

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair and took John’s wrist in his hand.

The mug of tea grew hot atop John’s knee, and he closed his eyes, distracted by the gentle pressure of Sherlock’s fingers slowly working at the bruise on his wrist. A hint of pain blossomed beneath.

“I know,” Sherlock said.

“No, you never said anything to me at all.” John pulled away and sat back in his chair, out of reach.

“You asked me, Sherlock. You asked me to switch, to take you down and I did that for you. And then we had this moment. I mean I thought, right, maybe you really wanted to be with me, maybe it was something more than just filling a need. And then, the fucking next day you just switched off.”

They sat in the heavy silence, floating in the long drawn out spaces between words, and the world around them continued to move. The marks on his wrists still ached where Sherlock had laid his fingers.

“You were up front with me,” John said. “You warned me that you didn't think you could give me what I needed. And I know I should have said something to you. But I didn't want to push you. Then it kept getting harder to bring up, and by the end I felt like I was being an arsehole, or a fool, or… maybe you got bored.”

“I didn't though,” Sherlock said. “I never grew bored.”

“Then what happened?”

John stared at the patterns of paper, and coloured pins, and string that covered the wall above the sofa. He imagined the map of their hesitant relationship would resemble a twisted spider web with frayed edges and strands that trailed off into nothing.

“After that night… after I sat in that chair before you and refused to break because you asked me not to…” Sherlock’s voice stayed soft and he stared down at his hands. “I never really understood what you gave to me, how much you gave to me, all those times you allowed me to take you apart…”

“And, that was- I still don’t understand.”

“I've never been that… open, with anyone. I've never wanted to be that… vulnerable with anyone. And now there’s you. And you frighten me. Needing you frightens me. What if I hurt you?” He paused for a moment. “That's a specious argument; I know I hurt you- have hurt you numerous times- but what if I hurt you more? Finally do something unforgivable? What will it take to make you grow tired of me? I know I frustrate you, the way I am. What if I lose you?”

“So you pushed me away instead? You don’t see the irony in that?”

“If I kept you at arm’s length, if I stopped us for a while, then maybe I could get control over everything I felt-”

“But you didn't stop, that’s the thing. There were so many times when you would just stare at me, or touch me, or get so fucking close that I didn't know what the hell to think.”

John stood before Sherlock could start again, the untouched tea sloshing over the edge of the mug and burning his fingers. The air had grown too thick with painful words and he itched to get out.

He took refuge in the kitchen. The small distance gave him the space to breathe. John lingered in front of the sink, staring at the pile of stacked up dishes, and test tubes, and knives floating together in the cloudy water. He wondered where all of the pieces would fly if he slammed his fist into the centre of it all.

“We were doing alright, though, before I- before all of this?”

Sherlock’s question pulled John out of his head. He stared down at his hand, his knuckles white from gripping the mug so tight. Sherlock came to stand behind him, closer than they had been in a long time. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock didn’t understand the concept of personal space, or if he just chose to ignore it. John let go of the mug and watched it slip beneath the surface.

“I think so. In a strange kind of way, yes,” John said. “And that’s what’s so fucking sad about all of this.”

If he took a step back he would end up on familiar shores, leaning against Sherlock while everything slid back into place. He gripped the edge of the sink; he didn't want to look back. He was too angry to slide.

“I've ruined this, haven’t I?” Sherlock asked.

“I think we both have.”

“Do you think you could forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive, Sherlock. But- I think a part of me had started to love you. And now I just don’t trust you anymore.”

John stared at the green and white tile above the sink and tried to pull his thoughts into a straight line. Each word laid him bare and open.

“I don’t want to ruin what we have,” John said. “I like how we work together. The cases? That part’s still good, right? I don’t want to get to a point where that falls apart as well.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and pulled him close. John closed his eyes and wanted out, but his feet refused to move. His orbit would always decay the longer he stayed near Sherlock. If he were a smart man, or sound or sane, he would pull away and end the night. But as he stood in Sherlock’s embrace he began to realise that he was none of those things.

“I still don’t understand,” John said. “The handcuffs. Why did you leave them in my chair?”

“I think I wanted you to find them.”

“You think?” John turned to face Sherlock. He stared up at Sherlock’s mouth and the edge of the sink felt like a brick wall against his back.

“You’re never uncertain. Everything you do has a purpose.”

“I know.”

“That doesn't make any sense.”

“No, it doesn't,” Sherlock said. “It didn't exactly go as planned, keeping away from you. I- shouldn't have tried.”

“No, you shouldn't have.” John freed himself from Sherlock embrace and stepped back. He didn't have to fall again. He could just stop. “I wouldn't have pushed you. I spent two fucking months skirting around you, giving you space. But, I shouldn't have left it to chance that you’d come back around. That’s on me. I still don’t even think you know what you want.”

“I’m sorry.” Sherlock looked down. “What should I- What happens now?”

“Now? I have no idea.”

 

* * *

 

John pulled the handcuffs from the pile of makeshift gear. Tangled together in the centre of his bed they had become a collection of things that he didn't want anymore. For the past month they had served as a distraction, but he was done playing alone. He didn't know if that meant finding someone else.

He lay back on the bed and let the weight of the handcuffs settle onto his chest. Thoughts of Sherlock, no matter how many times he pushed them out of his head, found their way back inside.

He turned off the light and waited for the flat to grow quiet before he moved. He kept the cuffs tight in his hand as he crept downstairs. If he gave them back maybe he could finally move past all of this. He scanned the sitting room, looking for a place to leave them. He could set them outside Sherlock’s door, or hang them in the centre of the puzzle on the wall, adding one more thread to the perpetual mystery. Or maybe they could go back close to where they started.

He tucked the cuffs beneath the cushion of Sherlock’s chair. It might take days for Sherlock to find them, or maybe only minutes, and he wondered what would happen after that. The gesture seemed loaded and opened ended, and he began to understand what Sherlock meant by, “I think I wanted you to find them.”

“I never answered your question.” 

John startled at Sherlock’s voice. He bit back a curse, then sighed and sat down in Sherlock’s chair, now that his covert plan was blown. Sherlock stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his dressing gown.

“I don’t remember what I asked you.”

“If I knew what I wanted.”

“And now you know?”

Sherlock nodded. “I think I've always known. I just didn't know what to do with the information.”

“What does that even-”

“It’s always been you.”

John closed his mouth. He didn't know what to do with that information either. He tapped his fingers against the armrest and stared down at where he had left the cuffs behind.

”You could return them to me,” Sherlock said. He sat down across from John and settled into the tattered chair. “If you don’t want them anymore.”

John laid the cuffs in Sherlock's outstretched hand.

“It’s not that I don’t want them. I just thought, one day if you ever found them again, maybe with enough time, with enough distance we wouldn't be-.”

"The way we always are?"

John nodded.

“Yes… I thought it would be easier to sneak down here at half-two to hide these things in your chair, than having to go another round with you. Going up against a pack of thugs is a cakewalk compared to talking to you sometimes. And the most frustrating part is I've been lying awake for the past hour because I want to fucking throttle you and I want you to take me down and I don’t know how both of those things are going to balance out.”

“They don’t have to balance,” Sherlock said. “You just have to decide in which order you want to do them.”

Sherlock leaned forward, his hand in the pocket of his dressing gown, where he had tucked the cuffs away. John looked down, floored by the suddenness of Sherlock’s proposition. His need had never gone away, nor had his desire, but neither had the uncertainty that Sherlock wouldn't back away from him again.

There would be risk in this. Risk to his heart, and his head, and to his peace of mind. At the end of everything, there was a good chance that he would be worse off for placing himself beneath Sherlock’s thumb. The old wounds in his heart, only now beginning to heal, could be raw and bloody by the morning.

Still, he wanted all of this so badly.

“Just tonight,” John said. “If we do this, I can’t give you any more than that.”

Sherlock nodded and sat back against the deep cushions and his features became lost in the shadows. John wondered if they were actually there, or if somewhere above he slept in his bed and this encounter was only a dream. But if this was a dream, he wasn't ready to wake up.

Sherlock nodded.

“Just tonight.”


	6. Chapter 6

The moths inside of him had come alive again, fluttering about in the pit of his stomach and stretching their wings all the way up into his ribcage to quicken his heart. It had been months since he felt this nervous, or this ready, and for a time he had doubted that he would ever feel this way again. The spark had started at Sherlock’s proposal, and now with his wrists cuffed behind his back, anticipation needled at his nerves, and kept him unsteady. He grew lightheaded waiting for the next moment, and the one that would come after that.

A hard shove at his back sent him stumbling into Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock gripped John’s shoulders and forced him forward each time he hesitated. When he slowed again Sherlock knocked him off balance and face down onto the bed.

John righted himself quickly and got to his feet. He kept his back to the bed and braced for the next shove, positioning for defence. How easily they slipped back into their dynamic surprised him. One command, one touch, one deep shuddering breath and he’d fallen back into the deep end again.

“When I turn on the light,” Sherlock began, “I expect to see you kneeling on the bed. Eyes down. Not another sound out of you. Do you understand?” Sherlock leaned against the closed door, his arms folded as he listed his demands.

John understood, but there was no way he could comply. His one moment of submission ended after Sherlock stripped him down to his boxers and locked the cuffs onto his wrists. Any more would require coercion. He kept his chin up, bristling with defiance as his heart raced and echoed through his head. He struggled to get his wits about him. Staying in control seemed an impossible task; Sherlock knew just what to say to keep him second guessing.

Sherlock turned on the lamp on his bedside table and soft light filled the room. He pulled the handcuff key from the pocket of his dressing gown and tossed it on the bed. He moved past John without another glance.

Very little had changed since the last time John had been in Sherlock’s room. If anything the space had grown more cluttered. Piles of books stacked high in the corners; the bed remained dishevelled and unmade. Sherlock hadn’t used it much as of late; most nights he worked until he dropped onto the sofa, then woke up to start the cycle again.

“What’s your best time?”

John didn’t understand the question. He sat down on the edge of the bed. It seemed pointless to stand now, their standoff passed without the scuffle he’d hoped for.

“Getting out of the cuffs. Best time.”

“I have no idea. It’s not like I ever timed it. I wasn’t trying to be Houdini.”

“Then guess.”

Sherlock knelt on the floor, half inside of his closet, blocked from John’s view as he dug through the steamer trunk that held all of his gear. John tried not to guess what he would have to endure.

John dropped back onto the bed, pinning his arms beneath his body. He stared at the ceiling, distracted by the rustling of metal and leather.

“Ninety seconds? A minute?”

He wasn’t sure if that estimate was even close. Everything he had done on his own had been about getting stuck, not getting out.

“You didn’t really think I would kneel for you?” John asked. “I’ve never been-”

“Subservient? No, but get in the middle. I don’t want you falling off the bed.”

John struggled back up and moved to the centre. He waited, suddenly cognisant that whatever they were about to do, started now.

“Won’t Mrs. Hudson hear us? Shouldn’t we maybe do this… upstairs?”

“She won’t be back until Sunday afternoon. I just have to make sure you’ve stopped screaming by then.”

John looked down, the threat made him falter and flush.

“Why haven’t you started?” Sherlock asked.

John latched onto the end of the question, distracted by the leather strap coiled around Sherlock’s fist.

“What do I do?”

Sherlock picked up his mobile. “This is a game, John. Play it.”

“I don’t know the rules.”

Sherlock pointed at the bed and John followed the cue and found the key, forgotten at his side.

“Escape. You have one minute.”

“One minute, then what?”

“Then I make it much harder for you.”

Sherlock opened his hand and the strap uncoiled to the floor. Two rows of holes dotted the length, ending at a thick metal buckle. With it came endless possibilities for how he could be restrained.

John grabbed the key, his thoughts looping on what 'make it harder' meant, and the fact that sixty seconds was no time at all. Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed and stared.

John dragged the key across the base of the cuff, searching for the hole. He turned his wrists, tried the other side.

The high pitched buzzer of Sherlock’s alarm startled him, filling the space.

“Time.”

John kept working. He didn’t have to obey. The game would only end when he no longer held the key. Sherlock closed in and their fingers tangled together as Sherlock plucked the key from his grasp.

“I said time.”

Sherlock sat beside him on the bed and slid his hand onto John’s knee. John looked down, unsettled by the abrupt switch from struggle to stillness. He couldn’t tell if Sherlock meant to kiss him now, or if he should be the one to initiate, or if he was supposed to be still and wait. If Sherlock wanted to take things in a more intimate direction, he would be open to it. It had been so long since they last kissed. He hoped that if this was to be their last scene, it might shift into something more than just bondage and escape.

Sherlock reached up to touch his face and as the gentle smile faded John knew he’d been played. He flinched back too late as Sherlock pushed him down. John growled, unable to fight back, immobilised by Sherlock’s weight. Sherlock worked quickly, pinning John’s thighs and binding the strap around his legs.

John fought until he couldn’t move.

When Sherlock climbed from his back, John struggled onto his side. The thick strap coiled around his legs, binding him from ankle to knee. With enough effort, he could move his knees back and forth, beyond that he was thoroughly hobbled.

Sherlock dropped the key on the pillow beside John’s head and left him on the bed.

“Round two. One minute.”

“Fuck, I can’t reach it- Not from here.”

Sherlock stared at his mobile. John abandoned his argument for action. He took the key between his teeth and pushed himself up onto his elbows, then spat the key behind his back. He snatched it up before Sherlock could make a move.

“Resourceful. You have thirty seconds.”

John shut his eyes to cut off the distractions. He scraped his fingers across the keyhole and marked the spot, then slowed everything down and lined up the key.

The alarm jarred him out of his head.

“Time.”

John tried again. He caught the edge of the keyhole before Sherlock wrestled the key from his hands.

“You can’t cheat,” Sherlock laughed. “I called time.”

“You didn’t give me a chance! You have to put it where I can get to it.”

Sherlock smiled in lieu of a response, pushed him onto his back and pinned John with a hand placed squarely in the centre of his chest.

“I’m serious, Sherlock. Did you hear me?”

“Have you considered that perhaps I don’t want you to win?”

John frowned. He’d been too caught up in the fight and trying to make sense of the unspoken rules to consider that Sherlock had rigged this entire game for him to fail. If his hands were free he would fight back and wrestle Sherlock down, pin him with his body. He kept quiet and caught his breath, trying not to show that he was wearing down.

Sherlock placed the key by John’s hip and took a step back.

“Are you certain you’re ready?” Sherlock asked.

John nodded.

“I wasn’t sure, you’ve already wasted fifteen seconds just staring at me.”

John stopped gaping and twisted onto his side. He hit the key on the first grab and struggled to slow down and clear his head.

“The moment the key hits the bed the game is on. I thought you’d figured that out by now.”

Sherlock lined up an intimidating and distracting mix of vinyl and leather along the foot of the bed: coils of leather straps capped with heavy buckles, a roll of shiny black tape, a strange white ball. John shut his eyes and worked faster.

The leather straps were a known entity, already endured, difficult to escape, and overwhelming if Sherlock planned to immobilise him. The thought of the tape against his skin and the pain of removing it made him falter.

The alarm ripped him back.

“You really aren’t that good at this, are you?”

John locked his hand around the key. The small act of defiance would gain him a pause in the chaos, not much else. But even a sliver of control steadied him.

Sherlock’s dark and steady smile signalled that the round wasn’t quite over yet. Sherlock shrugged out of his dressing gown and joined him on the bed. John struggled to put distance between them.

“No,” Sherlock latched onto the leather straps around John’s ankles and reeled him in. “Closer.”

John fought for the sake of fighting, the act of thrashing let him pretend that his struggle wasn’t futile. He let loose a string of curses as Sherlock wrestled him onto his stomach and buckled another strap around his thighs.

Trapped face down he was blind and unable to push Sherlock from his back. He relented under Sherlock’s weight, worn out and gasping for breath. He lay still, waiting for his energy to spark so he could thrash again.

“You should conserve your strength.” Sherlock dragged his fingers through John’s hair. The touch both soothed and frustrated him, but he didn’t want Sherlock to stop.

“You’ll need it when all you can move is your hands.”

John’s struggling waned as Sherlock worked a wide leather strap beneath his chest. Sherlock managed him easily, despite his protesting, looping the strap around his torso and upper arms and pinning his arms firmly against his back.

John strained against the leather. The strap pressed against his sternum, and dug in across his biceps, far too tight to shrug out of without the use of his hands. Sherlock traced a path down John’s arms, long fingers brushed across his locked fists.

“We’re not finished yet,” Sherlock whispered against his ear. “Let go of the key.”

John shook his head. “Not until you get the- hell off me-” He growled, bristling in the heat of this hopeless challenge, determined to fight until he couldn’t move. He hovered on the edge of perfect helplessness, almost at the point of exhaustion.

Sherlock’s weight lifted from his back and John thrashed with nothing to keep him in place. He came up for air as everything stopped. Displaced.

John struggled onto his side, the simplest of movements almost impossible now, bound so tight. He blinked up at Sherlock, gasping, clearing his head, not sure what had happened.

Sherlock sat beside him, his hand resting on John’s hip.

“Are you still with me?” Sherlock asked.

John slowed as he caught his breath and grew quiet at the realisation that Sherlock had stopped because he had demanded it. He hadn’t wanted to end things. Lost in the moment and caught up in the battle, the words had just tumbled out.

“No, I- I didn’t say it to stop you…”

Sherlock picked up the white ball and squeezed the soft foam between his fingers. “Alright, but I still want you to say it.”

“Say?”

“That you’re still with me.”

“Oh…” John nodded, growing self-conscious in this sudden pause. Sherlock’s hands had always been at his back, easing him forward when he dug in. He didn’t know if he should say something more, that it would be okay for Sherlock to push back, that he wanted it. “Yes… I’m still with you.”

“Alright. We’ll continue then.”

Sherlock held the ball before of John’s face. The gesture seemed more like an offering than a demand. The foam was soft and scratchy and John flinched back as Sherlock brushed it across his lips. He turned his head away and drew his knees in as a barrier. He didn’t want to know how it would taste, or if he would balk if Sherlock pushed it inside.

“You keep staring at it, I know you’re curious,” Sherlock said. He held the ball closer and John looked again. It seemed too large to fit in his mouth, like an oversized apple.

“What is that exactly?”

“Just soft foam, a bit like a sponge.”

The ball compressed in Sherlock’s hand and pushed out from between his fingers as he squeezed it tight. John struggled to pull away.

“It dampens the sound. When I put this in your mouth and seal you shut it will keep you that much more quiet.”

“You want to keep me quiet?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“No, I rather prefer it when you’re loud. But you don’t tend to let go unless you’ve got something in your mouth.”

“I- I get another round though, right?” John looked away, the heat rising up through his skin. “Another sixty?”

“You’re just stalling now. You think you can talk your way out of this one?

“No, I don’t, but-”

John bit back his protest, afraid to stop everything again now that they were regaining momentum.

“I’ll give you another round,” Sherlock said. “And when you inevitably lose this is going in your mouth.”

John didn’t plan to lose again. He stretched his cramped fingers wide and readied the key. When Sherlock nodded he exhaled slowly, and went to work.

He wrestled with the awkward angles and worked from his wrists, pulling them as far apart as the cuffs would allow to compensate for this impossible task.

“Twenty seconds.”

The key scraped the edge of the hole and John slowed and exhaled again and the key slid into place. The cuff opened and slipped from his wrist.

John grinned up at Sherlock, triumphant. He didn’t attribute his win to skill, just blind luck, and he was fine with that. He worked his arms forward and freed his other wrist.

“Did you see that? What was that, forty seconds?” John laughed and tried to sit up. “You didn’t think I could do it, did you?”

The alarm sounded and Sherlock pushed John back down. John battled as Sherlock climbed onto him and pinned his wrists to his sides.

“I understand you like being bound, but if you’re just going to blatantly throw the round...”

Sherlock watched John’s struggle with a smile on his face, looking pleased with his advantage. With his arms belted to his sides and the weight of Sherlock holding him down John knew the fight was hopeless.

“No, I fucking won that! Forty seconds! The cuffs were off!”

“No, you gave up after forty seconds. The rules state that you have to be completely free.”

“You’re just making them up as you go!”

John refused to give in. Sherlock’s declared victory meant nothing. In this game of broken rules, he would always come in last.

“No, you never asked. I think you’re lying on the key.”

Sherlock wrestled John’s wrists behind his back and the click of the cuffs sounded his fate. John thrashed as Sherlock pushed him onto his back and straddled his hips, trapping him once again.

“Sherlock, wait-”

Sherlock hand clamped over John’s mouth and cut off his protest.

“No.”

John froze and flushed beneath Sherlock’s fingers. The quiet thrill of Sherlock’s refusal shuddered through his body and despite the humiliation of being forcefully silenced, a wave of arousal pushed through him.

“It’s been a while since I’ve shut you up. It seems like you’re in need of it.”

John shook his head, and struggled again; he wasn’t wired to submit.

“You’re not growing skittish, are you?” Sherlock asked. He pulled his hand away and sat back.

John shook his head.

“No… Are you?”

Sherlock braced his hands against John’s shoulders and stared down at him, leaving the question unanswered.

“Did it work?” John asked as the scrutiny began to grow uncomfortable.

“I don’t understand.”

“When you pulled away from me. Did it ever get easier for you?”

“No… It got worse.”

John didn’t know what else to say, he waited out the painful silence, trapped in Sherlock’s hold.

“I don’t know what to do.” John said. The words meant so many different things at once.

“Then open your mouth.”

John closed his eyes and parted his lips and Sherlock pushed the ball inside. He tried to hold still as Sherlock forced the foam into his mouth, but his instinct to fight back overrode everything and he balked. Sherlock clamped his hand over John’s mouth and pinned him in place.

“Are you finished?”

John dug his heels into the bed and bucked against Sherlock’s stifling hand. He shook his head, his movements growing clumsy and slow as he wore himself out.

Sherlock took advantage of his exhaustion and ripped off an arm’s length of vinyl tape from the roll. John could do nothing but watch helplessly, as Sherlock wound the tape across his lips and around the back of his head, sealing his mouth shut. Bound so tight, he could do nothing but endure.

“Don’t look so desperate. This tape sticks to itself, not to your skin. You won’t lose any hair when we take it off.”

John inhaled hard and fast through his nose, overwhelmed by the smell of the vinyl tape. The ball filled his mouth, trapping his tongue beneath and he wanted it out.

Sherlock hauled him up and sat him against the headboard.

“Breathe, John.”

John nodded at the command and tried to obey, dizzy from his thrashing and barely able to move his jaw. He dropped his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes. Having something solid against his back steadied him, even if it meant that he had nowhere to go. He counted his breaths; inhaling slow and deep until his head cleared and he came back down again.

“Are you sure you don’t want to forfeit? We could agree that I won, and that you’re just not very good at escapology.”

John tried to look defiant. He gathered his strength, and railed, not ready to back down. The force of his scream slammed into the barrier of tape and tightened his throat and his eyes began to water. He quieted after that and caught his breath again.

“You've turned that frustrated shade of red. I think only part of your resistance is stubbornness.” Sherlock gripped John’s chin and leaned in close. “Deep down you so desperately want me to make things harder on you.”

John looked away, faltering under the truth of Sherlock’s taunt. He shook his head from Sherlock’s hold and glared back, trying to mask his self-consciousness with empty defiance.

“This reminds me of our first time. Trapped on your bed. Everything I did to you.”

John shook his head. Their first scene had been a trial by fire. Hogtied so strictly he couldn't move. Overwhelmed and aching and numb from the strain of Sherlock’s clumsy and dangerous bondage. Overstimulated to the point of blacking out. Abandoned. He wanted to tell Sherlock that this was nothing like the first time. This time he felt safe.

Sherlock picked up the last strap.

”Hold still.”

John only heard _fight_. Sherlock looped the last leather strap between the handcuffs and John’s ankles, locking his limbs behind his back in a strict hogtie. John wore himself out as his thrashing disintegrated into pointless motion, his stifled protests no more than impotent sound.

The strap kept him trapped on his side but Sherlock had been lenient, modifying the tie to keep him in place but not to strain his body to the point of pain and fatigue.

John began to calm in the long space between rounds. He shuddered as Sherlock ran his hands across his body, and paused to adjust the straps and check his cuffs.

“John? Are you with me?”

John stirred at the sound and nodded. He had never left. He reached back, searching behind him for the key. Not sure if the question meant that the next round had started, and he had already fallen behind.

Sherlock stretched out beside him, their bodies almost touching. John twisted his hands into the sheets, not knowing what he was supposed to do, what more he could do than wait and be watched.

“You’re a bit of a wreck.” Sherlock reached out and combed his fingers through John’s hair. 

John glanced down, embarrassed at the state he was in. Molested seemed like a more accurate description. Roughed up and bound, his boxers twisted and dragged down low on his hips, and his erection tight against the thin fabric. The straps around his thighs were the only thing keeping his boxers from ending up around his knees.

John strained closer, grunting with the effort of edging his body forward. He needed to make contact, he needed for Sherlock to touch him, now that he was defenceless.

Sherlock placed his hand over John’s heart and the gentle touch stopped him in place.

“Close your eyes.”

John did as he was told, just this once, worn out from his constant battle. Sherlock rewarded him with a soft kiss on his forehead and to the barrier of tape across his lips. Sherlock’s fingertips brushed gently across John’s eyelids, before he broke contact, and used the bondage tape as a blindfold, sealing him into the darkness.

John cried out and drew inward, hyper aware of his body. Blind, he was reduced to stifled sound and skin, nerves and ache. Each exhale, each shift and struggle, pulled a new sound from him: a quiet moan, a fed up protest, a frustrated whine that rumbled into the growl of wanting to be untied, a plea of craving connection while having to wait and be patient.

“Will you let me touch you?”

John nodded quickly, hoping the sounds he made would be taken as consent. The longer he was made to wait, the more desperate they became. Sherlock had never played with him blind. There were countless new ways Sherlock could take him apart.

They could stop the game all together. Call it a draw. Call it a fucking loss, he didn't care. His body was a minefield of sensitive spots to be exploited by Sherlock. The soles of his feet, insides of his thighs, his stomach and ribcage and hip bones, touched the right way he could be worked up or made to thrash.

John braced himself as Sherlock's dragged his fingers down his stomach and settled his hands onto his hip bones. He waited for Sherlock to dig in and make him scream, but instead Sherlock hooked his fingers onto the waistband of John’s boxers and tugged them down to his thighs.

John edged closer. He wanted the words to beg Sherlock not to stop. He raised his hips, trying to help with his undressing.

Sherlock laughed softly and eased him back down, then left him alone on the bed.

John rocked slowly, stretching his tired muscles and listening for Sherlock. He lowered his chin to his chest, trying to ease the tension that had settled between his shoulder blades. Being trapped so soundly in place, and the ache of needing contact frayed at his patience. He pleaded quietly, pulling against the straps and buckles and tape, desperate to be touched, afraid that somehow he’d been forgotten.

“I haven’t abandoned you, John. I see you.”

The shifting bed marked Sherlock’s return. John pushed his hips forward, the only bold move he could make, and hoped Sherlock wouldn’t deny him. Slick fingers brushed across his hip and slid around his cock, engulfing him, working him slowly.

“I think we should up the stakes,” Sherlock said.

“We should” sounded like good words; John didn’t care what came after them as long as Sherlock’s hand stayed on his cock. He gripped the strap that coiled through the handcuffs and bit down on the ball, trying his best not to distract Sherlock from his task.

“I’d like to see how long you can endure this.”

Sherlock dragged slow circles across the head of John’s cock with his thumb as he explained this horrible, wonderful game.

“If you can control yourself for more than one minute, I’ll add that time to your final escape.”

John nodded again, not sure exactly what he had agreed to. Listening proved difficult with Sherlock’s hand working him so painfully slow and steady.

“Alright John, let’s begin.”

John turned his face against the bed. The game was once again rigged against him. The challenge had started the second Sherlock took him in his hand, and by the time he finished explaining the rules John was already so close to coming. John tried to count the seconds and turn his attention to the numbers, but he got lost somewhere around twelve, his entire body warm and buzzing and good.

“I need to do this to you more often.” Sherlock’s mouth was hot against his ear as he taunted him. “Hold you hostage.”

John whined softly, his dignity fading, aching for Sherlock to keep going, but just a little faster, hoping that he didn't mean to deny him.

“I could keep you trussed up in the corner while I worked, keep you worked up and aching for it.”

Sherlock tongue flicked across the tip of John’s cock and the

warmth of Sherlock’s mouth slowly engulfed him. Sherlock’s threat both scared and excited him. John arched his back, pulling hard against the straps, begging for it, unable to stop himself as Sherlock pulled back and his tongue dragged up the base of his cock. And when Sherlock took him in his mouth again, John lost the round.

He drifted for a while, twitching, and sticky and sore, so ready to sleep. He protested quietly for Sherlock to go gentle on him as he dragged a dry flannel across John’s abdomen and his flaccid cock, and tugged his boxers back into place. Sherlock took his time when he was finished, adjusting the straps while John lay still and wished that they could stop for a moment and settle before they started again.

“That was actually… less than a minute.”

John whined against the tape, tired and desperate. The straps kept him from pulling his knees in and steadying himself.

“Are you still with me?”

The question echoed softly in his head. He just needed a minute, to catch his breath and wake up before he tumbled back into the chaos.

John flinched away as Sherlock started to pull at the tape over his eyes. He’d forgotten to answer.

_Are you still with me?_

He didn’t know, but he managed a nod, not ready for everything to end. He had fight left in him, somewhere. The right words could spark him again, and the right touch.

“A moment then?”

John nodded and Sherlock moved closer. John struggled to meet him halfway, inching towards Sherlock’s direction until he brushed against Sherlock’s leg. He stopped and settled his head onto Sherlock’s thigh.

He let go completely as Sherlock dragged his fingers through his hair. His purpose was to breathe and to be touched, nothing more. His wrists fell limp against the metal as he relaxed into his bondage. The straps and tape became things that embraced instead of confined, and the weight of the thick foam inside his mouth kept him quiet and humbled.

He passed the time, anticipating Sherlock’s next touch, trying to predict if Sherlock would trace slow circles against his temples, or smooth the tape down across his eyes, or scratch the top of his head. Perhaps this was what he had attempted to find alone in his room, this strange peace of being suspended at the centre of a storm. Overwhelmed, and vulnerable, and safe.

“I hope this is what you wanted.”

Sherlock’s caress slowed and stopped. John nudged him to continue.

The question seemed almost too large to turn over. His want rode the wave of the scene, and changed with the moment. He wanted to let go. He wanted to be turned on. He wanted his control to be wrested away. He wanted to be touched, manoeuvred, and forced. He wanted to get off.

Right now, he just needed Sherlock’s touch, and the sound of his voice. He wanted to rest with his head against Sherlock’s leg, bound up so beautifully tight, and stay in this dark, in-between place for as long as he could.

“I know this doesn't mean things have changed.”

John hovered on the edge of consciousness, tethered by fingertips and sound. If he let go, he would drift off and settle into sleep. He listened, waiting for the end of Sherlock’s thought. Sherlock’s hand slowed and settled atop his head.

“I know I've been a fool.”

Even if he had been able to answer, John didn't know what he would have said in return.

He nudged Sherlock’s hand, and waited for the caress to start again. He sighed when Sherlock obliged, contented as Sherlock scratched the back of his head.

“I've missed that sound. Your sound.”

The minutes stretched on in silence. John tugged lazily against the handcuffs and tried to stay awake. And after a while Sherlock pressed his lips against John’s forehead and pulled away.

“I’m not sure how we should end this game. What the stakes should be. It should be important.” Sherlock touched him as he spoke; the pressure of Sherlock’s fingertips against his skin was broken up by lines of vinyl and leather across his body. He flinched as Sherlock reached his navel, fully awake now.

“A promise?”

Sherlock settled down behind him. John inhaled deep, and held his breath, itching to start. He tensed and reached out behind him. He hadn't heard the key hit the bed, but there was no way to be sure. He pulled at the sheets and found nothing. His heart began to race. He spread his fingers wide, strained back, and scraped Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock pressed the key into his palm.

“One minute.”

John steadied his grip, and held the key between his fingertips to compensate for his inability to reach, or move, or do much of anything. He pulled his wrists apart until the metal dug into his skin. He had to find the right angle or he would never hit the mark. He scraped the edge of the keyhole and skidded past.

“Thirty seconds.”

The key slipped from his cramped fingers and disappeared into the void.

John lost track of the countdown. Thirty seconds meant nothing. The alarm would sound the end of this impossible game and his loss. He didn’t know what would happen after that. He grabbed at the sheets and strained back and found Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock closed John’s hand around the key.

“Ten seconds.”

John slowed down. The game already over. He counted back from ten as he worked and when he hit zero he was met with silence.

He stopped, waiting for Sherlock to snatch the key from his fingers, or the sound of another strap, but neither came. He started again, and didn’t stop until he found the way out.

He pushed down the instinct to lash out and protect himself as the cuffs came off. He worked his arms forward and hooked his fingers into the strap around his chest and wrestled free of it.

“Keep going.”

Sherlock’s words sparked him again. The moment he felt the strap give, he started on the blindfold, searching for a seam, and scraping at the edges until he saw light.

His patience gave way and he growled in frustration as he dug at the gag, desperate to get everything inside his mouth out. He wrestled the tape down to his neck and spat the sodden ball onto the bed. He probed the inside of his lip with his tongue and felt the indentation of his teeth. His jaw ached.

He kicked free of the last of the straps and collapsed onto the bed. He stretched out as far as his limbs would allow, arching his back and sighing with the stretch. He ached in so many places and was bruised in so many more. Tomorrow his body would be stiff and sore, but right now he didn't care.

“How long was that?” John asked, his voice hoarse, his mouth dry.

“Four and a half minutes.”

John frowned and unwound the vinyl tape from around his throat.

Sherlock gathered up the discarded gear and stood at the foot of the bed, the straps and tape a tangle in his arms. He looked around the room.

“Just leave it, Sherlock.”

John reeled himself in slowly and took half of the bed as his own. The smell of vinyl and sex and sweat clung to his skin. He glanced at the door and the thought of another shower came and went.

“I’m too tired to move,” John said. “I’ll have to throttle you tomorrow.” He stretched his arms above his head and pressed his palms flat against the headboard and stretched again until his joints popped.

Sherlock dropped the pile onto the floor and stretched out by John’s side. After a while they faced each other, and began to connect at points in-between.

Sherlock reached out and touched John’s face.

“I know I lost, but I can’t… I can’t promise you anything,” John said. The words felt like ripping off a bandage all at once. Not knowing what Sherlock would ask scared him.

Red lines marked his biceps and chest, echoes the straps left behind like scars. Sherlock traced the paths across John’s skin.

“I don’t know if this is alright, touching you… now that we’ve stopped...” Sherlock pulled his hand away. “I don’t know what to say to you… to make you trust me again.”

“Words don’t mean anything, Sherlock,” John said. “Maybe one day you’ll show me. I can’t tell you how.”

Sherlock grew quiet after that and John closed his eyes and waited until Sherlock turned off the lights. He didn't know if Sherlock would ever be able to show him, or if when the morning came, another distance would settle in and they would drift further apart. If they found their way back, it would have to take time. Words were ephemeral. Promises like ghosts.

“Will you let me, though?” Sherlock whispered, when the sky began to grow light again, and neither of them had been able to sleep. “Will you let me try?”

“Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you soooooo much to the best betas in the world: [anjalididier](anjalididier.tumblr.com), who made me start overagain, [lady_t_220](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_T_220) who made me do it right, and [wearitcounts](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sher_locked_up) for her ninja level eagle eyes and calling out my lazy stuff! Thank youuuuuu!!!
> 
> Every single word of this is for my friend [Re_White](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Re_White/pseuds/Re_White). I've been so excited to give this to you for like a year now... surprise! I hope you enjoy it! Thank you for your awesomeness and kind words of support along the way. :-)
> 
> Thanks so much for checking this out! xoxox -mugenmine


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